A cool rush of shock swept the breath from my lungs.
I rarely heard the “Hammerklavier” played at its intended speed, and the stunning realization that Isabella could outperform even seasoned professionals crushed any reservations I may have had about seeking her out.
I had to see it for myself.
After a brief hesitation, I closed my hand around the doorknob, twisted, and stepped inside.
CHAPTER 3
Kai
The piano room was as grand as any other in the club, with luxurious drapes cascading to the floor in swaths of rich velvet and golden sconces glowing softly against the deep rose walls. A proud Steinway grand stood center stage, its polished black curves gilded silver by a blanket of moonlight.
Seated in front of it, her back to me and her fingers flying over the keys at a speed that was almost dizzying to witness, was Isabella. She’d entered the sonata’s final movement.
A bold trill announced the start of the first theme, which twisted and stretched and turned upside down over the next two-hundred-something odd measures. Then, it was quiet, an intermission before the second theme’s choir hummed into existence.
Soft, haunting, dignified…
Until the first theme crashed in again, its rushing notes sweeping over its successor’s quieter existence with such force it was impossible for the second not to bend. The two themes curled around each other, their temperaments diametrically opposed yet inexplicably beautiful when conjoined, climbing higher and higher and higher still…
Then a plunge, a free-falling grand finale that nosedived off the cliff in a magnificent splash of double trills, parallel scales, and leaping octaves.
Through it all, I stood, body frozen and pulse pounding at the sheer impossibility of what I’d witnessed.
I’d played the same sonata before. Dozens of times. But not once did it sound like that. The final movement was supposed to be thick with sorrow, an emotionally draining twenty minutes that had earned it mournful superlatives from commentators. Yet in Isabella’s hands, it’d transformed into something uplifting, almost joyful.
Granted, her technique wasn’t perfect. She leaned too heavy on some notes, too light on others, and her finger control wasn’t quite developed enough to bring out all the melodic lines. Despite all that, she’d accomplished the impossible.
She’d taken pain and turned it into hope.
The last note hung in the air, breathless, before it faded and all was quiet.
The spell holding me captive cracked. Air filled my lungs again, but when I spoke, my voice sounded rougher than usual. “Impressive.”
Isabella visibly tensed before the last syllable passed my lips. She whipped around, her face suffused with alarm. When she spotted me, she relaxed only to stiffen again a second later.
“What are you doing here?”
Amusement pulled at the corners of my mouth. “I should be asking you that question.”
I didn’t disclose the fact that I knew she’d been sneaking into the piano room for months. I’d discovered it by accident one night when I’d stayed late in the library and exited in time to catch Isabella slipping out with a guilty expression. She hadn’t spotted me, but I’d heard her play multiple times since. The library was right next to the piano room; if I sat near the wall dividing the two, I could hear the faint melodies coming from the other side. They’d served as an oddly soothing soundtrack for my work. However, tonight was the first night I’d heard her play something as complex as the “Hammerklavier.”
“We’re allowed to use the room after hours if there’s no one else here,” Isabella said with a defiant tilt of her chin. “Which I guess there now is.” She faltered, her brows drawing together in a tight V.
She moved to stand, but I shook my head. “Stay. Unless you have other plans for the night.”
Another involuntary glimmer of amusement. “I hear neon skate parties are all the rage these days.”
Crimson bloomed across her cheeks, but she lifted her chin and pinned me with a dignified glare.
“It’s impolite to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations. Don’t they teach you that at boarding school?”
“Au contraire, that’s where the most eavesdropping happens. As for your accusation, I’m not sure what you mean,” I said, tone mild. “I was merely commenting on nightlife trends.”
Logic told me I shouldn’t engage with Isabella any more than necessary. It was inappropriate, considering her employment and my role at the club. I also had the unsettling sense that she was dangerous—not physically, but in some other way I couldn’t pinpoint.
Yet instead of leaving as my good sense dictated, I closed the distance between us and skimmed my fingers over the piano’s ivory keys. They were still warm from her touch.
Isabella relaxed into her seat, but her eyes remained alert as they followed me to her side. “No offense, but I can’t picture you in a nightclub, much less a neon anything.”
“I don’t have to take part in something to understand it.” I pressed the minor key, allowing the note to signal a transition into my next topic. “You played well. Better than most pianists who attempt the ‘Hammerklavier.’ ”
“I sense a but at the end of that sentence.”
“But you were too aggressive at the start of the second theme. It’s supposed to be lighter, more understated.” It wasn’t an insult; it was an objective appraisal.
Isabella cocked an eyebrow. “You think you can do better?”
My pulse spiked, and a familiar flame kindled in my chest. Her tone straddled the line between playful and challenging, but that was enough to throw the gates of my competitiveness wide open.
“May I?” I nodded at the bench.
She slid off her seat. I took her vacated spot, adjusted the bench height and touched the keys again, thoughtfully this time. I only played the second movement, but I’d been practicing the “Hammerklavier” since I was a child, when I’d insisted my piano teacher skip the easy pieces and teach me the most difficult compositions instead. It was harder to get into it without the first movement as a prelude, but muscle memory carried me through.
The sonata finished with a grand flourish, and I smiled, satisfied.
“Hmm.” Isabella sounded unimpressed. “Mine was better.”
My head snapped up. “Pardon me?”
“Sorry.” She shrugged. “You’re a good piano player, but you’re lacking something.”
The sentiment was so unfamiliar and unexpected I could only stare, my reply lost somewhere between astonishment and indignation.
“I’m lacking something,” I echoed, too dumbfounded to dredge up an original response.
I’d graduated top of my class from Oxford and Cambridge, lettered in tennis and polo, and spoke seven languages fluently. I’d founded a charity for funding the arts in underserved areas when I was eighteen, and I was on the fast track to becoming one of the world’s youngest Fortune 500 CEOs.
In my thirty-two years on earth, no one had ever told me I was lacking something.